


Breathe

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set waaaaaaaay in the future-fic. Spike/Angel, the prompt is "breathe."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: No spoilers, major character death.

_“So. . . .” Spike murmurs, his eyes fluttering open to lock on Angel's searchingly. His smile is small, tired and lovely. The nest of pillows he's laying in seems to dwarf him. “Is this the day, then?”  
  
Angel takes Spike's hand in his, trying to memorize every wrinkle, every scar, every age-spot stamped there by life. “What do you mean?” He asks, then winces.   
  
_The day I die, _hangs in the air, as palpable and unspoken as all the things neither of them ever had the courage to say, despite the warnings and reminders time had given them.  
  
Spike's smile widens, and even though he should be too deep in a morphine haze to recognize Angel, let alone insult him, he says: “Wanker. Stupid git.”  
  
“Limey bastard,” slips out on a stuttered, shaking laugh, half muffled by Spike's palm, which is too warm against his lips, the pulse too rapid. Every pointless exhalation of every breath that follows wants to be a sob, a plea for him to stay.   
  
That tired smile turns into a tired, soundless laugh . . . then into a tired coughing fit that smells of blood and decay.   
  
“This _is _the day--” Spike persists around the wracking fit. When he squeezes Angel's hand, his grip is still strong, if fleeting and his eyes are alert and sparkling. “Didn't think I'd live long enough to see it, even if I lived forever. Feels good to be wrong.”  
  
“What are you  _talking_  about?” Angel asks when the coughs have settled back into soundless chuffs of laughter. Then he shakes his head. “Nevermind--Jesus, you shouldn't even be  _talking__ \--”  
  
“You really are quite dense, aren't you, Peaches?” Spike's tone is tart and tender, his eyes are already slipping shut again, for what both of them know is the last time. “But I love you, too.”  
  
Between one rattling breath and the next Angel is left totally alone, but for the duty nurse who rushes in on the heels of the useless, whining alarms.


End file.
